Elves in Hightown, or What is the World Coming To!
by Cruellae
Summary: Fenris found himself speaking of things he'd never told anyone, and Zevran returned the trust by allowing Fenris subtle glimpses of his truth.  It became a game, between the two of them, a dance between the whispers and secrets of their past.


An unfamiliar light flickered through the side room window of Fenris's mansion. He peered out the window to see a glow in the mansion next to his.

He was not pleased.

He had liked when that mansion was empty, when he had no neighbors to worry about. He didn't exactly own the house he now lived in, and neighbors were likely to notice such things, and possibly report them to the guards.

But there had been none of the fuss and bustle of a noble family moving their wealth. He would have noticed that, certainly. There was just a light on in a mansion that was supposed to be abandoned.

It was not a good sign.

Fenris blew out all his candles as he moved briskly through the house, gathering up his sword and strapping it to his back.

He was tired of running. He did not want to sit like a skittish deer while a hunter watched and waited and made plans.

He slipped in through an open window in the back of the stranger's mansion, moving as softly as he could.

"Stop right there," came a smooth, sultry voice, curved with a rich Antivan accent.

Fenris felt the cold steel of a wicked sharp dagger press against his throat, just lightly enough that it didn't draw blood. A warm body pressed against his back and he could smell spices and cured leather, rich and exotic.

His captor guided him further, until they entered the main room, lit by a roaring hearth and several candles. Without moving the dagger at his throat, the stranger moved around, so they were face to face.

It was another elf, his golden skin gleaming in the firelight, blonde hair falling almost to his shoulders. Thick curved tattoos marked his cheek, full sensual lips curved into a smile as golden eyes roamed over Fenris's face.

"Ah," he said, "it is my neighbor." His tone was cordial, conversational, but he did not withdraw his dagger just yet.

"I am called Zevran," continued the strange elf, "Zev to my friends."

"Fenris," the other elf growled in return, scowling.

Zevran smiled and pulled his dagger back, sheathing it at his hip.

"Good to meet you, Fenris," he said.

Fenris's hand went to his throat, checking to see he was unharmed.

"So tell me, is this how you greet all your neighbors?" said Zevran, chuckling. "Sneak into their homes in the middle of the night to subdue them with your large sword?"

"I…" Fenris was at a loss for words. "You are no noble," he finally managed to growl.

"Neither are you, I should think," said Zevran, "although they say you do have the ear of the Champion herself, so perhaps that is how you manage to live in such splendor."

"Why are you here?" said Fenris.

"Rest assured, my friend, I am not here for you," said Zevran. "I am no threat to you, although I must admit to some curiosity." Zevran's eyes traveled over his body and for a few seconds Fenris felt almost as though he were naked under that piercing gaze.

"Come, have a glass of wine," said Zevran. "I should like to get to know my new neighbor."

!

Fenris sat in one of the cushioned chairs, setting his greatsword carefully to the side, still within reach, and watched Zevran.

The other elf moved like a cat, graceful and languorous, he made getting a bottle of wine from a nearby cupboard seem like a dance. His skin was golden in the flickering firelight, shadows playing around him, hinting at the curve of his neck and the swell of his ass.

Fenris found his mouth was suddenly very dry. He gulped his wine, gratefully.

Zevran smiled at him, a smile that seemed both cunning and sweet.

"So, what brings you to my house in the middle of the night?" he said, the gaze of his golden eyes like a caress. Fenris felt his face grow hot.

"I am…something of a fugitive," he said, his voice throaty and gruff.

"Ah, yet another thing we have in common, then," said Zevran. "Who is it you are hiding from?"

"Slavers," said Fenris. "I'm a former slave, and my master is persistent in attempting to recapture me."

"I see," said Zevran, his face solemn. "I am sorry to hear that. Rest assured, should I find any slavers in the area, they will meet an unfortunate end."

"I appreciate it," said Fenris.

"We fugitives must stick together, no?"

Fenris favored Zevran with a long glance. "Who is pursing you?" he said.

"Have you heard of the Antivan Crows?" said Zevran.

Fenris nodded. Even in Tevinter, the Crows were well known, and Danarius was not above hiring them to further his ambitions. His enemies were not above such trickery either, and Fenris had in the past killed a few Crows to protect his former master.

"I used to be one of them," said Zevran. "Let us just say they don't take kindly to my…change of careers."

"I see," said Fenris.

A silence hung between them, the fire crackling and flickering.

"You are a companion of the Champion's, I hear," said Zevran.

Fenris nodded.

"Tell me of your adventures," said Zevran.

The night passed pleasantly, as Zevran and Fenris sipped fine Antivan wine and shared stories of the Champion and the Warden.

As he stumbled home just before dawn, Fenris realized he had done more talking in the last several hours than he was accustomed to in an entire week. Something about the charming Antivan made him want to open up, to connect. It was…unusual, but not entirely unpleasant.

!

Hawke had been running Fenris ragged all week. He'd barely had time to sleep or eat between killing a high dragon and killing yet another inevitable coven of blood mages. So instead of getting drunk at the Hanged Man and losing to Isabela and Varric at cards, he headed home as the sun began to set, intending to collapse in front of the fireplace with a good bottle of wine.

What he was not expecting was to see a slender figure sitting before a gently roaring fire, golden hair glinting whenever the firelight caught it.

"Zev," he said, his voice stern. He was prepared to lecture the other elf on propriety and neighborly courtesies, namely knocking. But Zevran turned around and gave him a wide smile, caressing him with those golden eyes, and his annoyance was stamped down by a much more powerful emotion.

"Ah, Fenris, you return," said Zevran, his voice like silk draped over the words. It would have taken torture to get Fenris to admit how much he liked that accent. "I have been waiting for you."

"Have you?" said Fenris, his throat suddenly dry.

"I…acquired this fine bottle of wine, and I hoped to share it with you, in the spirit of neighborly friendship."

"I…I would like that," said Fenris, uncertain of his words. He sat, slowly, in the soft chair next to Zevran, and stole a glance at the elf, noting the curve of his lips and the way the light played over his golden skin.

"So tell me, what has been keeping you out at all hours of the night this past week?" said Zevran.

Fenris was certain he should be annoyed that Zevran was spying on him, but instead a little flutter went through his stomach at the thought that Zevran noticed him at all.

"It seems everyone in this city needs Hawke to solve their problems," said Fenris, "and I help her."

"Ah, it is a familiar story," said Zevran. "When we were trying to stop the blight, it seemed everyone we met had a problem. And the Warden solved them all."

"And this city is infested with blood mages," said Fenris. "We root out one nest of the foul creatures only to find two more."

"They sound rather like darkspawn," said Zevran, a small smile playing across his face.

They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping the wine which was indeed quite fine.

"One hears many rumors about your Champion," said Zevran, his tone sweet but cautious. "Some say she is sleeping with her handsome elven companion."

Fenris chuckled. "They say that, do they? Oh, the abomination will be upset to hear this." He turned to Zevran, smiling. "Hawke is…not my type."

"And what is your type, if I may be so bold?" said Zevran. Fenris looked over at the slender, graceful fingers as Zevran lifted his glass of wine to his soft, full lips.

"I…" Fenris was at a loss for words. "I've never given it much thought. Slaves are not allowed such luxuries."

"I see," said Zevran. He met Fenris's eyes, but there was no pity in those golden orbs. There was only kindness, and a gentle understanding.

"What is your type?" said Fenris. "If I may be so bold."

"Crows are allowed no such luxury," said Zevran. "In some ways they are little more than slaves. My type was whatever mark I was assigned to seduce, or whichever Master I needed to please."

Zevran's face was shadowed by bitterness for only a few seconds, but Fenris glimpsed a kindred spirit behind the elf's jovial façade. It made him want to see more, to reveal more of what lay beneath Zevran's easy smile and flirtatious eyes.

!

Zevran came over to Fenris's mansion every few days, to share a bottle of wine and a story or two. Fenris found himself looking forward to this event more than anything else in his admittedly sparse life. Even Danarius's wine tasted less bitter when Zevran was around, although Fenris still refused to pour wine for anyone, ever again. Zevran accepted this and poured himself a glass every evening with a smile.

Fenris found himself speaking of things he'd never told anyone, and Zevran returned the trust by allowing Fenris small and subtle glimpses of his truth. It became a game, between the two of them, a dance between the whispers and secrets of their past and the tenuous stability of their present.

But tonight was different.

Tonight was an anniversary, a day Fenris marked carefully each year, as penance. He began drinking early, before the sun had set, and by the time Zevran showed up he was already half drunk, staring into the unlit fireplace as though he could ignite the wood with the intensity of his gaze.

"Hello, my friend," said Zevran, stepping silently through the threshold. The Antivan looked around, perceptive as always, noticing the scowl on Fenris's face, the empty bottle of wine upturned on the floor, the unlit fire.

"Hello, Zevran," said Fenris, turning.

Zevran stepped delicately and settled himself in the chair next to Fenris. He turned, a question in his golden eyes, but did not speak, letting Fenris steel himself.

"Tonight is an anniversary," said Fenris. He lifted the bottle of wine he had been drinking and handed it to Zevran. "Drink up."

Zevran took a long sip and Fenris watched the curve of his throat as he swallowed. The only light came from a few candles on the table between them, and it danced on Zevran's skin. Another night, another time, Fenris might have thought to run a tongue along the contour of that graceful neck, but not tonight. Not this night.

"It is the anniversary of my escape," said Fenris, and he leaned forward, reckless. "Do you want to hear the story?"

Zevran graced him with a smile, and some of his melancholy settled in the warmth of that gaze.

"If you are willing to tell it, I would love to hear it," said Zevran.

So Fenris told him the tale, of being left in Seheron, of the Fog Warriors, of Danarius and the eventual massacre. And when he was finished he gazed into the fireplace, refusing to look at Zevran. It was a long time before the other elf spoke.

"I killed the woman I loved," said Zevran, speaking slowly, carefully. "She…her name was Rinna. She was a Crow, as was I."

Zevran turned to Fenris. His eyes were more sincere than Fenris had ever seen them.

"We were on a job together and I found papers that indicated she had betrayed the Crows. So we killed her."

Zevran turned away, his golden hair glinting in the candlelight, and Fenris felt the urge to reach out and run his fingers through the silky strands.

"She told me she loved me, she begged me not to kill her. I laughed in her face while my friend slit her throat, and then I spat on her corpse for betraying the Crows."

Fenris let his hand creep alongside the chair until it was resting gently over Zevran's own.

"Later, we found out the papers were forged. She never betrayed the Crows. The Masters, they knew what we had done. It didn't matter to them. We didn't matter to them, our lives less significant than the coins they used to pay their whores."

Zevran let his fingers slip between Fenris's, an embrace more intimate than any Fenris had experienced since he had escaped.

"I…I wanted to die," said Zevran. "So I took on an impossible contract, a contract to kill one of the famous Gray Wardens. But instead of killing me, she saved me."

They sat together, staring at an unlit fireplace, the only warmth radiating from their entwined hands.

"Escape is never as simple as it seems," said Fenris.

"No," said Zevran. "It is certainly not."

!


End file.
